


And the Devil Laughed

by orphan_account



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29166132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Helene and Pierre's relationship has been going downhill for so long neither of them even know what happened anymore. Marya does.
Relationships: Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina, Pyotr "Pierre" Kirillovich Bezukhov/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Kudos: 9





	And the Devil Laughed

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cathartic trainwreck-probably not the most organized or articulate as I am not writing this on a fully coherent mind, but I just really wanted to write something on this snowy night.  
> Thank you guys <3

Helene had never, in all her life, been called a simple woman. She’d never been called a simple woman until Pierre sat across the table with too many empty glasses for a man, even of his size, to hold in his arms. Pierre had never known of controlling his volume, nor had he ever been told to. She did not know much of his parents-or anything about him, for that matter. Though it was safe to assume no one had the gall to tell him when his tongue was tied by one too many things of brandy. He couldn’t control his volume like he couldn’t control his alcohol, or his control his temper.

The first time he raised his hand at her, she laughed. She laughed right in the face of the man who’d said those words to her. He’d said she was going to end up in hell, and Helene did not deny him the luxury of that likely truth. Pierre had simply forgotten she, too, would look the Devil in the face and laugh.

She’d done it before.

She saw the devil in his eyes every day he had that _one_ extra shot he shouldn’t.

When he drank in the past, she never noticed it. Perhaps the vodka numbed her sense of touch just as it did all the shitty parts of her life. She only noticed when he’d yell at her, or whisper something in her ear he probably shouldn’t have. Helene didn’t think it affected her, because she never remembered the words he said exactly: they must not have hurt her if they weren’t available the moment she rose from her bed in the morning.

It used to be words. It used to be laughter. Now when his hand pulled back she pulled away. It was a habit-one of survival, probably-but Helene would never call it that, because then that would offer the implication she couldn’t survive as she was. And Helene had mastery in herself: her emotions, her body, her thoughts. To be capable of stomaching her actions being influenced by some man she did not even like would have made her even more nauseous than she felt looking at her wedding ring. One that was presently made opaque by the blood from her split lip and bleeding nose.

When Marya pulled her aside and asked, Helene did not give an answer. She turned her head down and to the side, smiling. Smiling in a way that was amused. It was funny. The fact she was concerned.

Marya was funny.

She was funny because she asked, and the concept of Pierre doing anything was comical. It was even more comical that Marya pulled this conclusion. Marya, his best friend going on probably a decade now, thought he’d be so appalling as to hurt her. It was a myth, an urban legend: the story of Helene getting punched in the face-that Marya had just seen with her own two eyes-was hearsay. The story was funny.

But Marya didn’t laugh.

Marya did not laugh as she crouched in front of the brunette woman who did not know when her laughter turned to tears. All she knew was that her chest was aching and she could no longer see the wood flooring as more than a blur of mahogany. She did not know Marya was concerned, because how could she? How could she expect to be anything other than the beast in this relationship with one of the most pitiful men in Moscow? The idea the façade fell wasn’t making sense. It hadn’t been in Helene’s cards to get a moment of peace.

There was always something to keep Helene from taking a breath, whether it be the weight of a flawless reputation pressing down on her chest or Anatole’s plans and heartbreak when they failed or Pierrre’s hand around her throat. Existing, much like herself, had never been simple. The story paying out in front of her however should have been. Marya was there. Marya promised to stay with her until her nose stopped bleeding. She promised to talk to Pierre. They were such easy things. The redheaded woman had the power to make it sound like everything would be okay.

The silence that followed was peaceful. The kind of peace she’d seen in movies or late at night walking the empty streets. The quiet held more secrets of hers than any person would ever hear, but in this moment, it was reassurance.

“How many times?” The words were difficult for Marya to say as she looked down at where she’d just taken Helene’s hand into hers. “How many times has he done this?” People didn’t just flinch that hard.

Marya remembered the first time Helene and Pierre met. She remembered the fact not a single person forgot Helene’s name. manicured fingers curled around a glass of champagne, light dancing off those strings of pearls Marya grew to know so well over the years. She remembered seeing Helene in cry for the first time a year later: the night Pierre proposed. Helene said yes. Marya thought they were tears of joy.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

“He can’t…” Helene struggled through her words, not sure why she was choking on them. She squeezed Marya’s hand impossibly tight. Her and Pierre’s love had never been real, never alive, but it had never occurred to her before that it was something that haunted her. That those images of herself amidst an argument’s aftermath were things she had the option of dealing with as a memory rather than a day-by-day occurrence. Her poison tongue could rest. _She_ could rest.

“He can’t what?” Marya asked, leaning down to ask the girl with her brows knitted together. Helene shook her head, substituting words for a gesture: she flung herself into Marya’s arms. “Oh…” Marya mumbled, looking down towards this woman she’d always despised.

Had she?

Had she ever despised Helene, really?

The questions continued to race as she remembered every moment they’d spent together. She remembered when Pierre and Helene had yet to know one another. She remembered Helene’s legs in her lap, the whispered jokes about questionable education, the moments where they’d meet outside Marya’s apartment to walk to classes together. Helene waited for her. Always. Blizzards, rain, blistering heat. She remembered when Marya hugged her the first time, and Helene all but screamed for their friends to take a picture, because the redhead was not the touchy type, and under her breath the Marya muttered she would never let Helene hug her again if she kept it up. Marya still had the picture on her nighstand, somewhere.

They hadn’t even smiled at each other, nonetheless hugged, since Helene and Pierre began dating.

Helene hadn’t smiled in so long.

“I’ll kill him, don’t worry,” Rep lipstick stained Helene’s hairline the same color Helene stained her shirt’s collar. Helene laughed. And wow, when it was not one of pain, what a melodious sound.


End file.
